


Sub Rosa

by dolores



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clumsiness, Loyalty, M/M, Male Prostitution, Nudity, Skinny Dipping, Trust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-03-08 05:59:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18888592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dolores/pseuds/dolores
Summary: Following Tyrion's arrest, Podrick becomes squire to the Knight of Flowers. Can he prove his worth to Ser Loras?





	1. Someone who could be useful

**Author's Note:**

> AU branching off from 'Breaker of Chains', in season 4; both Pod and the Tyrells' story is now somewhat different. Some spoilers for canon events up to the end of that season.
> 
> This is my first GoT fic, and written because there isn't enough Podslash in the world, and Loras deserved better. I'd hoped to finish by the finale but haven't quite managed. The concluding part will follow shortly.

_Loras_

In Loras’s experience, when things seemed too good to be true, they usually were.

“How can I leave King’s Landing? I’m supposed to be marrying Cersei!”

“Yes, indeed you are; you grow as impatient as the smallfolk for that union, I’m sure.” Olenna Tyrell looked as deceptively frail as ever, sat in her chair in the royal gardens. She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. She knew only too well that, in truth, he would be grateful for any excuse to leave this wretched city – but wasn’t this all part of the grand plan to unite their houses and secure the realm?

“But all in good time,” she continued. “First, you must escort your grandmother back to Highgarden. The Roseroad is not as safe as it was, alas.” Her eyes twinkled.

He looked askance at her. “It’s probably the safest road in the Seven Kingdoms – but even if that were not true, we have dozens of knights in our household who could escort you. Why me? Why now? And what of Margaery? We can’t leave her here alone, not now she’s Joffrey’s widow.”

Olenna grunted dismissively and smoothed her skirts. “Joffrey’s widow she may be, but King Tommen will need a wife just as much as Joffrey did. Tommen’s not very bright, it’s true, but he is malleable. Your father will remain in King’s Landing to look after your sister while she mourns one husband and makes arrangements for the next.”

“Grandmother, I don’t trust the Lannisters.”

“No! Nor should you. That’s exactly why I think it unwise for too many Tyrells to be in the capital. Once Margaery is Tommen’s Queen, we can return. Cersei will be waiting, Tywin will see to that.”

Loras felt torn. He would like nothing better than to go home, but it still felt dangerous to do so. “Won’t Tywin object to my leaving? He’ll think this is betrayal, he’ll threaten to name me to the Kingsguard…”

“Oh, I daresay he’ll bluster, but the Crown relies on our grain and our men and our gold; the Lannisters need us more than we need them. Besides, with Sansa Stark missing and suspected of conspiring to murder Joffrey with her husband, there’s no risk of you marrying the heir to the North now. Still, you must remain betrothed to Cersei, we cannot overplay our hand. We need to gather a few more cards yet.”

Loras did not ask what she meant by this and decided against further debate; there was never any point in arguing with his grandmother. “Very well. When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow at dawn. The preparations are already all in hand.”

Of course they were. “I see. If you’ll excuse me, grandmother, I’d like to go to Margaery and spend some time with her before we depart.” And enjoy a last tryst with Olyvar, though he did not say that aloud.

“Quite right too, she will miss you as much as you will her. But Loras, my dear, there’s one last matter: you will be taking on a new squire.”

Loras frowned. “I already have a squire.”

“Yes, I know, young Edric Oakheart. Well, he’s not your squire now, I’ve asked him to stay here. Your sister has more need of a man we can trust in this nest of vipers than you do at Highgarden.”

“Then who is to squire for me?”

“Someone new.” Olenna sat back in her chair, hands clasped. “Someone who needs our protection. Someone who could be useful.”

 

_Podrick_

Podrick Payne was not a natural horseman. He had known this before they had set off for Highgarden, to be true, but being thrown from the saddle while crossing a shallow ford was further testimony to that.

Apart from a few bruises he was unhurt, and while the mocking laughter of the knights of the Reach as they helped him to his feet was embarrassing, he comforted himself that it could have been worse; at least the water was clean. His travelling companions had exchanged Pod’s slightly excitable stallion for a more docile gelding and as they rode on Pod dripped dry and tried hard to learn from the mistakes he had made.

Hitherto, Pod had had little option but trial and error in his efforts to improve himself: a squire could usually expect to be taught the arts of war from the knight they served, but this had never been his experience. Ser Lorimer was usually too drunk to ride and Lord Tyrion too short – and often too drunk also, now Pod came to think of it. Neither were great warriors for much the same reasons, so he had had little sparring practice and had never so much as held a lance.

While he would miss squiring for Lord Tyrion – who had at least taught him about politics and intrigue, if not horsemanship or combat – he entertained hope this situation might soon change. His master now was the Knight of Flowers, a man famous for defeating Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Gregor Clegane and who knew how many other great knights at the tourney, a man who looked as comfortable on horseback as he did on his own two feet. Pod did not expect such a highborn lord to have very much time to train his squire, but he still hoped to learn a few techniques from Loras Tyrell.

Then again, this depended on Ser Loras retaining his services for longer than the journey to Highgarden, for Pod knew his new lord was wary of him. He had little doubt his Lannister connections were what drove this caution, and while the only Lannister to whom Pod felt allegiance was Tyrion, given he stood accused of murdering his own nephew this likely wasn’t much of a recommendation. Indeed, for his own safety, only Ser Loras and Lady Olenna knew Pod’s true surname was Payne; the Tyrell bannermen believed he was Podrick Waters, a bastard serving boy, lately employed at the Red Keep, of whom Lady Olenna had become fond.

To be sure, Loras had been perfectly civil to him thus far, but while the Knight of Flowers was talkative among his fellow men of the Reach, his conversations with Pod rarely amounted to more than a few words – and most of them were terse orders. Yet Pod knew well enough it would take time to establish trust. Ser Loras at least had a good reputation as a knight among Pod’s fellow squires, and they admired his skills in the joust. Of course, those same squires also made crude jokes about Renly Baratheon being the greatest knight of them all, given how often he’d stuck his lance into Loras.

Pod knew from Tyrion that there was some truth in their jibes, but while he was supposed to find the very idea repulsive, he did not. He’d seen knights treat their squires, their women or even their children with violence and cruelty and yet no one remarked on it, and to him that seemed far worse behaviour. if Loras was a good man and a good knight it mattered little to Pod with whom he lay.

For what it was worth, Loras had Ser Bronn’s respect. “His fighting style’s a bit too flamboyant for my taste, but he’s a good man by all accounts. If you serve Ser Loras like you served Tyrion you’ll be fine,” Bronn had said as he took Pod through the streets of King’s Landing to rendezvous with the Tyrells. Pod knew no other way to be a squire, but he made a solemn pledge all the same.

Still, Pod had had some questions. “Why would the Tyrells want to take me into their service?

“Because Tyrion asked you to ask me to ask them, if you recall. So I did.”

“Yes, but why would they accept? What do they gain?”

Bronn had shrugged. “There’ll be something in it for them. If someone high-born does you a favour, there usually is. Could be they feel obligated to a young man with a famous name, you’re hardly a Flea Bottom boy after all.”

“It’d be easier if I was.”

The sellsword had laughed. “No Flea Bottom boy would say that.”

Whatever the Tyrells’ motivation, here Pod was. They were a few days into their journey to Highgarden now, a slow cavalcade on the Roseroad, Tyrell pennants fluttering in the breeze. Up ahead, Loras was astride a beautiful chestnut bay, elaborately decorated silver armour glinting in the afternoon sunlight, every inch the champion, conversing amiably with another knight from the Reach. Pod was in a group immediately behind, all riding two abreast, with Pod in his maroon jerkin, the rest in the green cloaks of House Tyrell. A wheelhouse pulled by four strong horses followed, transporting Lady Olenna and her servants, with a final set of riders bringing up the rear.

It was a busy road, and they passed travellers and merchants of all sorts, many of whom cheered or bowed as they realised Ser Loras was in their midst. In a different sense it was a quiet journey; had this been a journey through the Riverlands, they’d likely have been set upon by bandits and mountain raiders, but in the Reach there was peace, and their swords remained sheathed.

Not that all travellers’ journeys were free of trouble: as their procession rounded a bend they came across an elderly merchant whose cart, laden with grain, had come off the road and into a ditch, breaking one wheel. His two horses, as old and thin as their master, were feasting peaceably on a grass verge.

Ser Loras brought the riders to a halt and the knights and squires were commanded to assist this man in his hour of need. After removing some of the grain to lighten the load, Loras had his men surround the cart and lift it back onto the road, while Lady Olenna watched, amused, from the comfort of her wheelhouse. Pod was positioned on one corner on the ditch side, his foothold perilously close to the stagnant water.

“Ready?” Loras said from the cart’s other side, his voice clear as a bell in the quiet country air. “On my command – up!”

Twenty strong men did as he ordered, and the cart moved upwards and sideways onto the road, faster than Pod had expected. He stumbled as he tried to add his strength, his boot slipping on the soft mud near the ditch. Pod toppled backwards and into the ditch, and for the second time that day found himself soaked through – only this time it was with filthy, smelly, muddy ditch water. A roar of laughter erupted from the Tyrell men; even Lady Olenna was chuckling at his misfortune. Dejected, Pod began to struggle to his feet. An outstretched hand appeared before him: it belonged to Ser Loras. He was smiling, but it was gentle. “Let me help you, Podrick.”

Pod took the hand offered, was pulled up and out like the cart had been, and soon stood dripping on the road.

“Here, I know your name’s Waters, but do you have to be wet the whole time?” joked one of the knights, prompting renewed laughter from the other men.

“No, Ser,” said Pod, miserably.

“Leave him be,” chided Ser Loras. He turned to Pod: “It’s only a few leagues to Tumbleton. We’ll get you cleaned up there.” Then he gave Pod a smile and a wink, and Pod found himself smiling weakly in return.

Once they had helped fit a new wheel to the cart and accepted the gratitude of the old trader, the convoy moved on.

It was a curious thing; Pod had made an idiot of himself twice in one day, he was damp, and he stank – and yet somehow Ser Loras was being friendlier to him now than he’d been since they’d met. As he rode along he tried to work out exactly what had changed.

 

_Loras_

Tumbleton was but fifty leagues from King’s Landing but it already felt a world away, and Loras was happy to be back among the quiet, prosperous towns and holdfasts of the Reach. The dowager Lady Footly had greeted Olenna as an old friend and promised a lavish feast for the mother and son of her liege lord, just as soon as they had made themselves comfortable and changed out of their travelling clothes into more suitable attire.

As the guards had taken the horses off to the stables, from whence they would take themselves to the nearest inn, Loras and his new squire climbed the stone stairs of the small, sturdy keep to their accommodation. While Loras’s bedchamber was modest by the standards of King’s Landing or Highgarden, it was dry, warm and well-furnished. Lady Footly had thought ahead: a wooden bathtub sat, filled, before the fire, steam rising lazily from the surface of the water, and a flagon of wine and two silver goblets sat on a table to one side.

Podrick entered a little after Loras, somewhat red in the face from carrying heavy travelling bags up to the room. There was still a faint smell to him, the dirt on his face now the more obvious for being streaked with sweat. The memory of his pratfall into the ditch still made Loras smile, not just because it was of itself very funny, but because it had finally convinced Loras that Podrick was no Lannister agent sent into their midst on false pretences. He wasn’t convinced the youth had many Lannister secrets to share either, but at the least he did not seem dangerous, and Loras felt somewhat more relaxed in his presence now.

It helped he was a very attentive squire, more so than Edric had ever been. As soon as the bags were set down on a table, Podrick hurried to poured Loras some wine, and then as soon as Loras held a goblet in his hand started to remove his master’s armour, pauldrons first. His fingers were nimble despite the many components and soon all that remained was Loras’s underclothes.

Loras stretched in his chair, still stiff from travel. “Thank you, Podrick, that’s much better.”

“My Lord,” said Podrick, stepping back.

“Right, time for a soak before dinner.” Draining his goblet, Loras stood, pulling his shirt over his head as he did so. He tossed it aside, then unlaced his breeches and let them drop to the floor, stepping out of them and stretching again. Podrick stared for a moment at his master’s nakedness, then reddened and quickly busied himself tidying the armour. _Interesting_ , Loras thought, as he walked past him and stepped into the tub. The water was just hot enough, perfect for his travel-weary muscles, and he sank into it with a sigh of pleasure.

When the clink of armour ceased, Loras asked Podrick to bring him more wine. His squire handed him a full goblet, then scurried back out of sight. Loras smiled once more; there was something quite sweet about Podrick – though it wasn’t his odour.

“You know, I won’t be long here – it would be a shame to waste the water, and frankly you need a wash. You can use the bath once I’m done.”

A short pause then: “Yes, my Lord.”

“Good. Now can you find my blue doublet? I think I’ll wear that to the feast.”

“Yes, my Lord.” The sound of Podrick rummaging through the bags was almost immediate.

When, finally, Loras rose from the bath Podrick handed him a thin, Dornish linen robe, which Loras wrapped around his body. The water made it cling to his skin, and it was scarcely more modest than nudity.

“Go on then,” Loras said.

“My Lord?”

“Get in the bath.”

Podrick looked a little taken aback. “But – my Lord – I need to help you dress.” He indicated the clothing he had laid out on the bed for Loras.

“Oh no, it’s fine, I can do that myself.”

“But shouldn’t I wait until you’ve gone to the feast?”

“Absolutely not. The water will go cold.”

“As – as you wish, my Lord.”

Podrick sat on the chair and tugged his boots off, still looking uncertain, while Loras began to pull on an undertunic. As Podrick slowly stripped, Loras dressed. Soon they had exchanged positions and Podrick was naked and Loras fully clothed.

“Wait a moment,” said Loras as Podrick took a step towards the bath. He froze, as Loras added, “Let me take a look at you. I need to understand your physical condition if I’m to train you.”

His new squire reddened once more but stood as instructed, not even covering his manhood as Loras looked him over. He was no Renly, it was true, but then no other man could ever hope to match his King’s beauty and Podrick was still quite handsome in his way. He carried a little extra weight around his middle, but there was some muscle underneath the padding and, besides, it felt right for a squire to be a little stout. His skin was pale and mostly smooth, though there was some hair across his chest and a dense patch between his legs. _But all that can be removed_ , Loras thought. While he seemed of average length down below – of course one could never truly tell until full arousal – it looked rather thicker than most, perhaps more so than either Renly or Olyvar.  _Most interesting._

“I think you show promise,” Loras said, and there was the briefest smile on Podrick’s face. “Very well, you can get in.”

Podrick complied immediately; as he stepped in to the bath and lowered himself into the water, Loras was given a good view of his plump, smooth behind. _Promise, indeed._

“I’ll ask a servant to take your clothes to be washed. Do you have others?”

“Not really, my Lord.”

“Well they might be able to find something. I’ll get them to bring up some food for you too – and you can finish off the wine.”

Podrick turned in the bath to look at Loras. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“A knight should always treat his squire well, Podrick.”

Loras turned to leave but then Podrick spoke. “Pod, my Lord”

“I’m sorry?”

“If it pleases my Lord, you can call me Pod. It’s what my… it’s how I’m usually known.”

Loras smiled. “Pod it is.”

*

Leaving Podrick – no, Pod – to his bath, Loras made his way down to the Great Hall. His grandmother was already sat at the high table in conference with Lady Footly. He’d barely taken his seat on her other side when she turned to him and asked: “Now, have you made any progress with your new squire? Elicited anything useful from him?”

“Not yet.”

“Hm. I see. We’ve taken a risk, Loras, in sheltering him, I’d like that to have been worthwhile. You must gain his trust, then find out what he knows.”

“Yes grandmother, I will, I promise.”

She patted his hand, eyes twinkling. “Oh, I have no doubt. Like your sister, you know how to charm young men – and unlike her, you are a famous knight to boot. He’s comely enough and he wants to be a knight himself. You can make him love you, I’m quite sure, chastely or… otherwise. And those who are in love share their secrets. Just get on with it, would you?”

Loras glanced nervously at Lady Footly, lest she had overheard this indiscretion, but she was deep in conversation with her other neighbour, some older knight with a greying beard, with neither paying Loras and Olenna any heed.

“Yes, grandmother.”

*

The wine at dinner had been both plentiful and delicious, and Loras felt pleasantly merry as he took the stairs to his chamber, looking forward to his soft bed – though he’d taken another flagon in case he should want one more cup before bed. Reaching his destination, he swung open the door – and then came to a sudden stop. Ahead of him, a flustered looking Pod was getting up from the chair.

“My Lord.”

He was still completely naked.

“Ah. They haven’t brought you any clothes.” This was an obvious statement, but no less true for that.

“No, my Lord.” He did at least look cleaner, his cheeks rosy – though whether from wine or embarrassment it was hard to tell. “I expect with the banquet they haven’t had the time.”

Loras realised he had forgotten to ask for new clothes to be brought – but decided it was better to let Pod believe the Footly servants had got it wrong. He closed the door, to Pod’s evident relief, then held up the flagon. “At least we have more wine.”

“Let me, my Lord.”

Pod moved forward to take the flagon from Loras’s hand, then took it to the table to pour into a goblet, allowing Loras another chance to enjoy the view of his backside. _I could grow quite accustomed to having a naked squire._

“Make sure you pour yourself some too,” said Loras. Pod did so, then stood uncertainly by the table, goblet in hand. He still made no effort to cover himself, which Loras found pleasing but also curious. Loras knew rumours about him circulated among the common folk, and the Imp surely had heard them. Was Pod somehow unaware? Or did he know and did not care or even, perhaps, welcomed the situation? There had been no sign he desired Loras, but then Loras had been propositioned more than once late in the evening by drunk knights and minor nobility who’d never evidenced any previous such inclination. The Faith had much to answer for.

Maybe Pod just needed his opportunity. “Drink up, Pod.”

Pod took another gulp of wine.

Loras cast a look around the chamber. Other than the wooden chair there was nowhere to rest but the bed; the bath still sat in front of the fire, but its water was now not only dirtier but clearly cold. The bed, on the other hand was large, more than enough for two. He smiled at Pod. “You can’t very well find your way to an inn, bare as you are. You’ll have to stay here for the night, and we can make arrangements in the morning.”

“Yes, my Lord. If you would permit me to take a fur from the bed, I’ll sleep near the fire.”

“No, Pod, I meant you can share my bed.”

Pod nearly dropped his wine. “My Lord, I couldn’t. It’s – it’s not what squires do.”

Slightly disappointed, Loras drained his goblet then yawned theatrically. “I insist. It’s only one night, and I promise I don’t snore.”

“Yes, my Lord,” said Pod, still sounding somewhat reluctant.

“Very good. Now help me out of my clothes, it’s a long ride tomorrow and we need to sleep.”

Pod undressed his master as efficiently as ever, but once Loras was naked he was at pains to ensure he averted his gaze. With a sigh, Loras got into bed. He watched as Pod moved around the room to extinguish their candles, trying to commit Pod’s naked form to memory. He supposed the route to Pod’s information, whatever he had, would have to be chivalrous.

“Tomorrow, once we’ve found you some clothes, we should begin your training. Assuming you’d like me to train you?”

There was just one candle left burning and Pod’s body was softly lit when he turned to Loras, but his enthusiasm was clear. “Yes, my Lord, I’d like that very much.”

“Tomorrow then. Goodnight, Pod.”    

“Goodnight my Lord,” said Pod. He blew out the last candle and the room went dark.

Loras heard Pod slip into the furs on the other side of the bed, then go still. Loras waited for a few moments, wondering if Pod might draw near, but soon he heard the steady breathing of a man asleep. With another sigh, Loras closed his own eyes and let sleep take him too.

When he awoke, grey light of dawn leaking in from the windows, Pod was no longer next to him. Loras sat up, confused – then realised Pod was still in the room, just asleep on a fur on the floor.


	2. As talented as you have heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knight and squire grow closer, until Loras leaves Highgarden on a rescue mission without Pod. Soon, Loras needs rescued himself. What will Pod risk to do so?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fairly Pod-centric chapter (no bad thing). Many apologies for taking so long to update this story - it's ended up being rather longer than I thought it would be originally, and I write quite slowly. I'm working on part 3 now and will try to finish it as quickly as I can.

_Podrick_

The gyrfalcon soared up in the air from Ser Loras’s leather glove and flew off towards its prey. Shielding his eyes from the sun, Loras watched as the bird hovered for a moment against the azure sky before streaking toward a rabbit, which in turn fled across the undulating meadow in alarm. A short distance from Loras, Pod stood next to the Tyrell falconer, both patiently awaiting orders. Behind Loras, the waters of the Mander glinted in the distance as they flowed lazily around Highgarden.

Pod thought the songs about Highgarden did not do the castle justice. Its white walls gleamed in the sun, rising up from verdant farmland. In all directions there were fields thick with wheat or barley and orchards groaning with ripe fruit. Birds twittered happily in the hedgerows, and the air seemed thick with butterflies, dragonflies and bees.

Nor did it only look like a paradise; Pod had rarely been as well-fed and well-rested in his adult life, yet thanks to Ser Loras’s vigorous training regimen he was also feeling fitter than ever and, at last, he was learning warcraft. He couldn’t ask for a better teacher: not only did Loras have impeccable fighting skills, but he was generous and patient in his tutelage of Pod. He seemed genuinely interested in Pod as a person, forever asking questions about Pod’s life and his experiences as Tyrion’s squire. Loras was perhaps a little vain, it was true, but he was a kind and good-natured man, and Pod had grown to like his master a very great deal.

From what Pod could tell, Loras was well disposed to his squire, certainly ever since their visit to Tumbleton. Pod had been left rather confused that day, given Loras had gone from frosty to friendly in such a short space of time. It was all the more inexplicable because Pod had made a total fool of himself, falling in both a river and a ditch and then being left without clothes for the evening. He’d half expected Loras to replace him in despair. However, this idiocy somehow seemed to amuse Loras more than anger him, and now their relationship was cordial. Even so, Pod worked hard to prove himself to be more than a court fool, to be worthy of Loras’s respect.

In truth, he’d half-wondered if Loras’s interest in him went further than knight and squire when Loras had ordered Pod to share his bed that night – but in the event Loras hadn’t so much as touched him, and nor have he been anything other than honourable in the weeks since. Pod felt very guilty for imagining Loras might wish to misuse his authority in such a way. Still, that didn’t stop Pod wondering what he would have done if Loras _had_ expected something more. What he would do, if Loras asked it of him now.

Up ahead, the gyrfalcon had caught the rabbit. The falconer moved forward to collect the bird and its quarry and feed the falcon a morsel of meat as reward.

“I think that’s enough hunting for today,” Loras announced, pulling off his glove. He looked as handsome as ever in his fine, soft hunting clothes, his sword sheathed at his waist but otherwise unarmoured; Pod remembered the servant girls twittering to each other as they’d passed through the gate that morning. “Though I’m not ready to go back to the castle just yet. Pod, do you swim?”

“Not really, my Lord.”

“No matter, it’s not deep.”

Leaving the falconer to make his own way home, Loras took Pod along a track into a wooded area. The trees were old and tall, among them oaks and beechs and elms. The track wound through them until it met a gurgling brook that Loras followed upstream, until the trees parted and ahead was a large, clear pool, both fed and drained by the stream. The sound of water and birdsong aside it was quiet and secluded. Colourful flowers at the edge of the pool nodded at their reflections in the water, and the branches of an enormous weeping willow trailed in the water to one side.  

“We call this Harlen’s pool,” said Loras. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my Lord.” It really was a lovely place.

“Only the members of my house are permitted to use it – and our guests, of course. Just the thing on a hot day like this.”

Without having to be instructed, Pod began to help Loras remove his clothes, folding them carefully as he did so. As soon as he was fully naked, Loras ran up to the pool’s edge and plunged straight in the water – that was, it seemed, quite deep enough to drown in, despite what Loras had said – and came back up to the surface, shaking the water from his hair. He looked up at Pod. “Come on, then.”

“But – truly, I can’t swim, my Lord.”

“No matter, I can show you what you need to do. I’ll take care of you.”

Pod hesitated. “Should – should I undress?” He knew the answer to this but somehow hoped Loras would say otherwise.

Loras laughed. “You’d sink if you were wearing all that leather.”

Nodding, Pod removed his clothes under Loras’s watchful gaze, his master floating upright in the water. “You know, our training is working, Pod, your chest is getting quite broad.”

Still unused to Loras’s appraisal of his physical form, Pod felt both flustered and rather pleased. “Thank you, my Lord.”

When he finished, Pod gingerly stepped into the water, gasping as he did so for the water was indeed cold. He was breathing hard by the time it reached his waist. Loras grinned then dived beneath the surface. Pod barely had time to wonder what he was doing before he felt hands gripping his thighs, and with a tug his entire body was suddenly underwater, a single yelp escaping his lips. Moments later he surged back upwards, and he yelped again as his head found air. Loras came up with him, laughing.

“My Lord!”

“It’s the only way to do it.” Loras splashed him then turned and swam away, long confident strokes, until he reached the other side of the pool. “Try to follow me,” he called.

Pod attempted to do so, arms and legs flailing, stopping as it became clear his efforts were doing little to propel him forward. Loras swam back. “Here, Pod, let me hold you,” said Loras. His hands suddenly gripped Pod firm around the middle and held him afloat in a horizontal position. “Now let’s start with your legs – try kicking them together – yes, that’s right…”

They were in the water like this for some time, Pod flailing for the most part, Loras patiently guiding him, holding Pod afloat as need be, slick hands sliding up arms or along thighs, gently pulling or pushing, helping Pod understand how he was supposed to move.

Eventually, Loras suggested they rest for a time. Pod was scarcely more competent for this short lesson, yet he was beginning to understand the basic idea. He decided he’d like to continue to learn – not least, he realised, as he was enjoying this intimacy with Loras, the constant physical contact. It was just as well the water was so cold.

Pod sad on the bank, feet still dangling in the water, while Loras reclined nearby on a large, flat stone at the edge of the pool, warming himself in the sun like a lizard, eyes closed. Pod saw him naked often enough, but not usually such that he could stare, and he could not resist taking the opportunity now. Loras was very pleasant to look upon: though a warrior, he was not brawny as some knights, instead lithe and sinewy, smooth torso contrasting with hairy legs.

In truth, it was all very confusing, for never before had Pod thought he might find any man quite so handsome as to consider, as he did now, what it might be like to lie with them. But though Loras was so inclined, Pod knew, he’d surely have shown some sign of being interested in Pod by now. Not that this was so surprising, for once you’d loved a king, any squire, let alone one as plain as Pod, would surely seem of little interest.

Pod supposed many squires loved their masters and in this he was little different; after all, he’d loved Lord Tyrion too. It was simply that Pod loved Loras for his physical beauty as well as his good character. He decided that, as a good squire, whatever Loras required of Pod, he would receive, whatever needs he had Pod would service gladly.

All Loras had to do was ask.

_Loras_

“Please, Pod!”

Podrick looked stricken. “I’m sorry my Lord, but I can’t… I don’t…”

Loras fought the urge to jump up from his seat, grab his squire and shake him. “But you must know _something_ we can use against her. That’s why we took you into our protection in the first place!”

He immediately regretted those words; the look of realisation and then hurt on Podrick’s face was almost painful – but this would have to be addressed later. There were more immediate concerns than Pod’s feelings: news from King’s Landing that had been brought to Lady Olenna’s chambers by the Tyrell Maester at dusk.

“ _Please_ , Pod.”

The evening air was not especially warm, but a sheen of sweat had formed on Pod’s forehead, shiny in the candlelight. “My Lord, I don’t have anything I could tell you. Even if I did, I would not betray Lord Tyrion…”

“Cersei wants Tyrion dead!” Olenna Tyrell snapped from beside Loras, giving Podrick the sort of glare that struck fear in the heart of the bravest of knights. “I’d think he’d be quite content if you gave us any information that weakened her hand.”

To his credit, Pod did not quail too obviously. “But my Lady, I swear, there’s nothing I could tell you. Her Grace and Lord Tyrion scarcely spoke, and he did not confide in me when they did.”

Olenna made an exasperated noise. “Do you truly understand the gravity of the situation, boy? Scarcely do we receive a raven telling us Tywin Lannister is dead, murdered by his own son – your precious Lord Tyrion – then a second arrives to inform us Cersei has placed Margaery under arrest and thrown her in the Red Keep’s dungeon because she is supposedly part of the conspiracy. Nonsense though it is, my granddaughter could now be executed at _any_ moment. What are we to do? Her father may be on the small council but that won’t stop Cersei. Loras will set out for King’s Landing in the morning, but it will be days before he arrives. A raven will be faster – but that’s of little use to us if its dark wings carry no dark words. Do you have any for us, Podrick?”

“None.” Pod looked utterly miserable. “I’m sorry, my Lady.”

“Your contrition is of little use. Leave us.”

“My Lady.” Pod looked at Loras. “My Lord, I will ready the horses, so we may leave at first light.”

Loras opened his mouth to reply, but his grandmother spoke first. “Loras’s horse, yes – but not yours.”

Pod blinked. “But – I am Ser Loras’s squire…” 

“You _were_. Even were you not as worthless as you are, Cersei has spies everywhere. We will hardly disprove an accusation of conspiracy with Tyrion if Cersei discovers that he and Loras share a squire. No, you will report to the kitchens after Loras leaves. Perhaps they can find some use for you there. Now go.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“We’ll speak later, Pod,” said Loras, trying to sound gentle. Pod could barely meet his eyes; he turned and left the room.

Olenna sat back in her chair, shaking her head and harrumphing. “How did I ever imagine _he_ might be useful?”

*

By the time Loras returned to his quarters, Pod had finished in the stables and was busy packing clothes.

“My Lord.” He sounded subdued.

“Pod, I…” Loras wanted to explain, but Margaery’s fate still weighed heavily on his mind, crowding out all else. Besides, what could he say but that he’d spoken the truth in that moment? And while it was true that in the weeks since, he’d grown very fond of Pod – rather more so than this innocent squire could likely imagine – that still did not mean the original motivation in accepting his service was anything other than he might have had insights into the Lannisters and their secrets. No, it would have to wait. “Some wine, please.”

Pod poured and then handed a goblet to Loras. As he did so he spoke, nervous. “With your permission, my Lord, I would travel with you to King’s Landing. Not as your squire, but as part of your guards – I’d hardly be noticed among them.”

When Loras didn’t reply immediately, he dropped to one knee, head bowed. “My Lord, I am pledged to your service. Whatever reason you had for extending your protection, I am grateful. I wish to return the kindnesses you have shown me, and to defend your family.”

For a brief moment, Loras wanted nothing more than to accept, but he knew he could not. “Your loyalty does you credit, Pod – but Grandmother is right, you have to stay. The situation is delicate, and even a small chance your presence plays into Cersei’s hands is still too great a risk to take if we do not have to.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Pod got to his feet, looking embarrassed.

“It’s not the same, I know, but you can protect my family here. Lady Olenna will remain at Highgarden for now; if Margaery should be…” He didn’t want to say it out loud. “…if I am unsuccessful, it will mean war. The Lannisters may yet attack our lands – and we will need good men in the Reach should that happen, to keep my grandmother safe.”

“Even if I wield only a ladle, my Lord?”

Loras smiled for the first time that evening. “Even then, Pod.”

 

_Podrick_

Pod was plucking yet another pheasant for that evening’s feast, a small cloud of feathers floating around him, when he heard the news from a servant girl.

“Ser Loras has been arrested! By the Faith Militant. Locked him in the Great Sept, they say. Terrible news, what with Lady Margaery still in the dungeons herself. It’ll be war now…”

She’d barely said another word before Pod had dropped his half-plucked pheasant and sprinted from the room, a cook yelling angrily at him as he went. He raced halfway through the castle to Lady Olenna’s chamber before he stopped, breathing hard, realising she wouldn’t be there, having left for King’s Landing the previous week on news that Loras’s negotiations had made little progress.

No doubt there was a castellan or a Tyrell bannerman somewhere in the castle discussing what to do. Maybe even summoning the sworn houses to march on King’s Landing. He could volunteer to help rescue Ser Loras – but he wasn’t even a squire now; what help could a kitchen boy be in their eyes? He had no information on Cersei, truly.

Then, standing there, he realised: he’d been thinking about this the wrong way, seeking to answer Olenna’s question directly. But the answer was not to have something with which to blackmail Cersei. No, there was one piece of information he had had all along, and this could be the means to rescue the Tyrells both from their prisons – the network of tunnels running under the city.  

Not that there weren’t some obstacles if this new plan were to succeed. How to get to King’s Landing when you had no horse, to begin with.

*

The journey back to King’s Landing was rather less grand than the journey south. Instead of pageantry and knights, there was only a wagon piled high with turnips and a bedraggled trader. Pod had sold what little possessions he owned at the market at Highgarden and this had produced enough coin, barely, to pay this vegetable merchant for passage, just enough left over for the occasional bowl of thin stew when they stopped at an inn. 

Not that Pod was all that hungry most days: he had grown increasingly nervous as they neared the capital, wondering what awaited. Still, fretting was at least a distraction from the tedium of listening to the merchant discuss the many vagaries of farming root vegetables.

There were two main concerns: one, he knew the Lady Olenna was quite correct, that his rescue mission would soon be over if he was recognised by a gold cloak, even if now there was no reason to link him to the Tyrells. And two, even if he went unrecognised, for his strategy to succeed he needed to access the tunnels. After the Battle of the Blackwater, Tywin Lannister had sealed that which led out through the drain near the Mud Gate, so that no future attacker could use it – and now nor could Pod. He could still enter the network through the same route Tyrion had taken his troops in: a trapdoor in a small military storehouse at the foot of Aegon’s High Hill. But unless it was somehow abandoned – an unlikely scenario – there would be soldiers there, and he couldn’t come up with a good enough reason that the guards would let him in without too many questions. He couldn’t fight his way in, not least as it would attract too much attention, and while bribery was the obvious solution, he had no gold. He dared not try to contact Lady Olenna in case Cersei’s spies noticed him, and he was too clumsy for thievery – and what skill did he have that might allow him to make some money in a short space of time? 

Getting into the city was his immediate task though, and that meant travelling through a gate and past whatever gold cloaks were on sentry duty. Pod felt his best bet was to stay with the merchant and try to look inconspicuous. Sure enough, without Tyrion he was just another anonymous citizen, the gold cloaks paying him no heed as the wagon of turnips trundled in through the King’s Gate, even though Pod felt his nervousness must have been plain for anyone to see. As soon as they were a safe distance beyond, a relieved Pod had the merchant bring the wagon to a halt, and, after a polite farewell, stepped down into the dusty streets.

A walk to Aegon’s High Hill confirmed the storehouse was indeed still occupied, with a single guard on duty at the door, Lannister lion on his breastplate, pike tall and sharp. It was a busy street; there would be no opportunity to try to use force without it being witnessed. It was time to earn some coin, and after many days of contemplation, Pod could think of only one option.

*

Thanks to the exploits of Ser Bronn, Podrick knew where most of the brothels in King’s Landing were to be found. This was just as well, because the first two he visited were both closed, ‘in the name of the Faith’ according to the notices on their doors. He doubted Littlefinger would be happy.

The third brothel was quiet as he entered. Several women, diaphanous shifts barely concealing their lissom bodies, gave him appraising looks from where they lay on cushioned benches. To his mild surprise, he recognised a face: Marei, the pale, red-headed ‘spear handler’ among three girls whom Lord Tyrion had organised as his thank-you gift to Pod, what seemed like a long time ago now.

She recognised him too, rising from her seat and draping herself across him. “You’re a welcome sight, my Lord.”

“I’m not a lord,” Podrick said.

Marei traced a finger down his cheek. “All men are lords here, my Lord. Especially a man who can bring so much pleasure to us. Though I will have to ask you to pay this time, business isn’t as brisk as it used to be.”

Pod felt himself redden. “I don’t want to pay – that is, I don’t want to buy. I was hoping I might be able to work here, for a time.”

She laughed and drew back from him. “We don’t have much use for squires, we’re lovers not warriors here.” The honeyed tone to her voice had gone, but she still sounded friendly.

“No – you said just now that I can bring pleasure to others, and in truth being a squire is all about servicing someone else’s needs.” He took a breath. “I know there’s sometimes men as well as women who… do what you do. Might you need one here?”

Her eyes widened. “You are full of surprises. It’s true that we have some boys, sometimes – but you do know that they lie with men? We don’t get women buying what we have to sell, not usually.”

“I know.”

“But you _do_ prefer the company of women to men? Genna and Kayla and I are proof of that, surely? I still talk of that day…”

Pod had not thought of himself as having preferences precisely, had never considered the question. “Yes. No. That is, I – I think I do not have a preference. I am only…” he searched for the right words, “…eager to please.”

“A fine attitude for a whore.” She circled around him. “You do have some skill, I know very well; though in truth, you’re a little old for it, the men usually like them young. And you’re a little rougher than the usual boys too – but these days we can’t be too selective. Not many are brave enough now.”

He blinked. “Why would I need to be brave?”

Marei looked at him, curious. “You don’t know?”

“I’ve been out of the city for a while.”

“The Faith Militant has been attacking the brothels. The girls they take as holy sisters sometimes, or rough us up and let us go, but they’re much harder on the catamites. Prostitution is a sin in the eyes of the gods they say, and buggery even worse, and both together… They’ve gelded some boys, sent the rest to the Wall. And there’s fewer men willing to pay, too, after what happened to the Knight of Flowers.”

“What about him?”

“Oh, the High Sparrow has accused Ser Loras of fornication and buggery with Renly Baratheon. All true, of course, but he denies it, and no wonder. There’s to be a trial soon, and everyone expects he will be treated harshly so as to set an example. Would they geld a nobleman?”

Pod’s stomach had gone tight. He’d wondered why Loras has been incarcerated but had assumed it was in connection to Margaery, and it had not occurred to him his love for Renly might have been the cause. It gave Pod new urgency.

Marei did not seem to notice how tense Pod felt and answered her own question. “Whether or not they would, there’s fewer noblemen, or any men, paying for those services, or even the more traditional kind.”

“But there’s still some?”

She gave him a sly smile and a nod. “There’s enough.”

With that, Marei went to consult with the brothelkeeper, a tough-looking older woman who Pod guessed might once have been a whore herself. A short discussion followed, then Pod’s offer was accepted, “on one condition: he gets a good wash.” Given the last time he’d washed properly was in Highgarden, this seemed quite reasonable.

What Pod did not expect was that his ablutions would be so public. “You’ll have to get used to being naked in this place,” Marei said as she helped him remove his clothes in the middle of the main room, while other girls brought in a large wooden basin and filled it with hot water. As his clothes were taken away, he stepped into the basin, and stood awkwardly as several of the girls helped wash him down with sea sponges and a strongly perfumed soap. The sensations of so many soft hands and rough sponges sliding across his body had a predictable effect on Pod’s anatomy, only adding to his embarrassment – the more so when a customer arrived, a scarred sellsword who leered at Pod as he was led off to a private room by a blonde girl.

Once Pod was clean, the brothelkeeper appeared with a sharp razor, a brush and some shaving soap in a bowl. She proceeded to shave his face, which Pod had expected – then most of the rest of his body, which he had not, especially when she used the razor on some highly intimate places. Pod had to try hard not to tremble lest the razor slip, grateful at least that fear had caused his visible arousal to diminish.

The girls washed him down once again once the blade had scraped him smooth. All that remained was the hair on Pod’s head and a small neat patch of black curls between his legs. “Just like the women,” Marei remarked, adding in approval: “You look younger now.”

Finally, a light, scented oil was rubbed into his skin. He was given a loose, wine-coloured robe to wear: it had neither buttons nor laces and the slightest movement put his body on display, but it was neither as thin nor as short as the garments worn by Marei or the other women, affording him just a little more modesty.

The basin was cleared away and Pod was told to take a seat and wait for his first client.

Ten silver stags, Pod decided, as he tried to arrange himself on a bench, as alluringly as he knew how. The brothelkeeper told him he once the house had taken its share, he’d get a few copper pennies for each time – perhaps a little more on the first occasion as there’d be those who’d pay a premium “to take a lad’s honour”. Those pennies he would save until he had ten silver stags, some 560 copper pennies, in the hope that would be enough to persuade the guard to let Pod into the storehouse.

*

He was a knight.

“You will be his first,” said the brothelkeeper. “No other man has touched him.”

“Good.”

The knight was tall and broad, and though still powerful he had begun to age, dark hair and beard flecked with silver. He had given no name, but Pod could see a peacock engraved into the pommel of his sword, marking him a member of House Serrett, pledged to the Lannisters just as Pod once had been. Thankfully, he gave no indication he recognised Tyrion’s former squire.

While the knight made himself comfortable in a private room, Marei helped Pod prepare in another. As he removed his robe, she scooped out a glob of some viscous grease from a small clay pot and moved behind him.

“It will be painful,” she said, as she gently pushed two fingers inside him, spreading the oily substance around, stretching him. “Not just because it’s your first time. I’ve been with him; he lies with girls too. He likes it rough, Pod – but, thank the gods, he never lasts long.”

She kissed Pod on the cheek before she sent him to the knight’s room.

The knight had disrobed but he looked no less imposing now than in his armour, broad chest covered in hair, manhood dark and thick. After looking Pod up and down, he grabbed him and shoved him back against a table. He ran his large, callused hands down Pod’s torso, pinching Pod’s nipples hard. Pod whimpered and the knight smiled.

“Turn around,” the knight commanded, and when Pod did so, he pushed Pod’s head down until he was bent over the table, chest flush against the wood. He kicked Pod’s ankles apart then smacked Pod’s arse, repeating this action with increasing force until Pod’s flesh was tender and his cries loud.

“You want this, don’t you, boy?”

“Yes, my Lord.” said Pod, and to his faint surprise this was not the reflexive agreement of a whore: he meant the words.

Another smack. “You want to get fucked by the man you’ll never be.”

“Yes, my Lord.” He _was_ glad it would be a knight.

Two hands gripped Pod’s waist and something hard prodded at his backside. “Beg me for it, whore.”

“Please, my Lord.” It came out in a whisper, but Pod could hear the pleading note in his voice.

“Louder.”

“Please, my Lord.” This time it was nearly a shout.

The knight entered him in one long thrust.

*

He was a Lysene merchant.

Pod could see he had been handsome in his earlier days, some Valyrian blood in his veins. Even in late middle age his pale blue eyes were striking, though his body was now fleshy and his belly a large, pale dome.

He brought a friend, a sea captain from Pentos, a younger, slimmer man with a forked beard. They shared Pod between them, the Lysene using Pod’s mouth while the Pentoshi took him from behind. Once both had finished, they ordered him to kneel on the floor. There, the Lysene had Pod bring himself to climax while they lay on the bed, drank Dornish wine and watched.

“You know, a boy with your talents could make a great deal of gold in the pillow houses of Lys,” the merchant remarked.

“Thank you, my Lord.” said Pod, panting, his hand moving up and down his cock.

“Sit back and spread your legs for us,” the Pentoshi ordered, and Pod complied.

“You really must try his mouth when you’re recovered,” the Lysene said to his friend, then looked back at Pod and shook his head. “I didn’t believe the tales, that a youth as gifted as you could be found in King’s Landing.”

Pod was nearing the end and he thrust his hips forward. “The… tales… my Lord?” He had been working at the brothel barely two weeks; it seemed too little time for there to be tales of any sort.

The Lysene smiled. “Oh yes. Those of us with certain… tastes exchange information such as this. I’d barely stepped off my ship and I was told of you.”

Pod suspected that this was not entirely a good thing.

“Faster, boy,” said the Lysene.

*

He was a septon.

He was old, with thin white hair and milky skin, his eyesight weak, his step unsteady. And, clearly, if he was to be found in a brothel as a paying client, he had not been swept up by the puritanism of the Faith Militant and the new High Septon.

This private room was the establishment’s most ornate, heavy tapestries on the wall and silk sheets on the bed. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the drapes and the air was heady with incense; Pod had to resist the urge to sneeze. Stood just behind him, the brothelkeeper tugged on his robe until it slid down and off his shoulders and pooled on the floor. The septon peered at Pod’s naked body. “A little rotund,” he said eventually, with a small sigh: “but needs must in these times.”

“He may be a little solid around his middle, but he is as talented as you may have heard, my Lord,” said the brothelkeeper, whose attitude towards Pod had greatly improved now he was one of her more lucrative charges. “He desires nothing except to give you pleasure.”

“Is that so? Well, the Smith always blesses those devoted to their craft.” With that, the septon nodded at the brothelkeeper, who bowed and slipped out of the room.

“Could you assist me with my habit, young man?”

Pod helped lift the garment up and over the septon’s head and placed it carefully to one side, while the old man sat down on a cushioned bench and spread his legs. He patted one wrinkled thigh. “On your knees over here, my dear boy. Let us see what you can do.”

The septon required coaxing into tumescence. Pod had barely begun this task when they were interrupted by strange sounds elsewhere in the building: shouting, a woman squealing, banging, glass breaking. The voices were at first indistinct but then, as they got closer, fragments of speech could be heard: “the name of the High Sparrow”, “The Faith” and “fornication” among them. Then, closer still, “unnatural sin.”

Pod jumped to his feet, while the septon stared, ashen-faced, at the door.

“There is another way out, my Lord,” said Pod, stooping to grab his robe. He pulled it on, patting it to check for the pouch he’d sewn into its lining, where his hard-won coin was stowed. Only about seven silver stags, but it would have to do.

The septon shook his head. “I cannot run.” Somewhere, a man screamed in pain.

Pod grabbed the septon’s habit and pulled the old man to his feet. “You should not need to. Come with me.”

One of the tapestries concealed a small servant’s door, which led down a spiral staircase to the kitchens. Since the Faith Militant had begun to scour the city’s pillow houses, the brothelkeeper had thought it wise to conceal such routes of escape, and she had been quite right. Pod lifted the tapestry long enough to allow them both admittance, then pulled it back across the doorway. The stairway was dark and the septon frail, and it took some time to descend. The kitchen was empty by the time they reached it, a pot threatening to boil over on the fire and half-prepared food abandoned on the surfaces.

Pod helped the old septon dress, then looked around for a suitable weapon. It seemed the servants had taken any sharp knives when they had fled, and so he grabbed a toasting fork with two long prongs. The kitchen led out onto a small courtyard, beyond which was a backstreet. Pod checked nervously for sparrows, fork in hand, but though shouting and yelling could still be heard from the windows above their heads, the alleyway was quiet.

“Thank you, dear boy.” The septon, spotted hands trembling, pressed a silver stag into Pod’s hand then limped away.

Pod glanced back at the brothel, wondering what fate had befallen Marei. He wanted to go back, ensure she too could make her escape – but he was half-naked and had only a kitchen utensil as a weapon, with no idea how many foes he would face. No, it was more likely he would be taken by the Faith Militant or even killed, and Loras would still languish in his prison. She had told him the women were treated a little better; as he turned and fled down the alley, he hoped that this was true.

True, it was not the act of a chivalrous man – but, thought Pod, such codes of behaviour applied to men who were knights or those who aspired to be knights, not men who were whores and could never aspire to that status again.

*

Pod waited until dusk to approach the storehouse. The street was still busy with citizens going about their business, the gloom eased by a few oil lamps and torches on the walls of the buildings. The guard stood at the doorway, staring sullenly into the middle distance.

“Excuse me, ser?” It was unlikely this guard was a knight, but Pod thought he was as well to start with flattery.

Frowning, the guard took in Pod’s strange appearance: a burly youth in a fine robe, barefoot and bare-headed, smelling faintly of perfume. “What d’you want?”

Pod hadn’t intended to look as he did when he made his approach, but he had decided to make a virtue of necessity. He began to recite the words he had practised as he had waited for the sun to set.

“I need your kind permission to enter the storehouse, ser. I’ve been sent here by a gold cloak who needs a safe place to enjoy my… services.” Pod could see this guard understood him. “The Faith Militant are closing the brothels and he does not want to risk being interrupted – for his sake more than mine, of course. He asked me to wait for him here and to give you some payment for your discretion in the matter.”

“Go on.”

Pod held up the money pouch. “It contains eight silver stags, ser.”

The guard gave him a thin smile. “It’ll cost a bit more than that, boy.”

“I have nothing more to offer, ser.”

A laugh. “Don’t be so sure. How long before this gold cloak arrives?”

“Er, not for a time yet. He did not want to risk being seen arriving with me.”

“Good. So there's time enough for you to help out another military man?” He squeezed his crotch to make his meaning plain, though Pod understood quite well. The guard leaned in and said with a growl: “Just so's we’re clear, I’d rather fuck a woman any day – but if there’s none to be had, then your mouth will be warm enough in the dark, right?”

Pod had hoped this type of service was finally over – but if he needed to be on his knees once more to get into the storehouse, it was more than worthwhile. “It would be my pleasure, ser.”

The guard grinned. He took a key from a chain around his waist, unlocked the door and opened it. Pod and the guard walked into the shadows beyond.


End file.
